Heart Bound
by 4getfulimaginator
Summary: After years of private tutoring, Emma goes to teach in a village by the sea in a desperate bid to escape her heartbreak and the outside world. She thinks that she'll always be lonely and out of place, but the local lighthouse keeper, a fellow recluse and the town outcast, makes her see that she is right where she belongs. Captain Swan AU, slightly historical (mid-19th century).
1. The Arrival

**A/N: About 2 years ago, when I was only dreaming of writing fiction and hadn't actually put pen to paper, there was a romantic period novel I envisioned, a Jane Eyre retelling that had its own twists and turns and...it really wasn't like Bronte's novel, but it had elements from it. However, despite the fact that I had brainstormed extensively and done special research on the settings and time period, I gave up this would-be novel for personal reasons.**

**But now I have been inspired to pick up the storyline again, making changes and condensing the plot into something more solid. Many OUAT characters will have their part in this fic, and in the middle of it all is our beloved Captain Swan. This is a complete AU, not exactly modern, not exactly historical either – it's happening sometime during the mid-19th century. The original setting was England, but for this fic, let's just say...a land without magic. *winks* Meaning I'm not picking any particular country, as it's not relevant.**

**I've done the Enchanted Forest, Neverland, the real world in general... Time for a change in setting, wouldn't you agree? Also, it's my first time writing a present tense narrative, so wish me luck!**

**(Nope, I haven't abandoned any of my other CS stories. Not a chance!) **

**Disclaimer: I own nothing except the plot.**

CHAPTER I - THE ARRIVAL

* * *

The day she sets foot in Storybrooke, she just _knows_ that everything will be different. It's a strange feeling, this premonition that won't go away. Perhaps it's a good omen, or a foretelling of terrible times to come. Of course, she can't tell which it is.

But as always, Emma Swan takes her hopes in stride with her doubts, telling herself repeatedly that she shouldn't want for anything but secretly wishing that finally, this could be home. Her home, the one she's been searching for since she was really young and naïve and lonely.

_Not so young now, but still lonely. Praying she's not foolish this time around, like she had let herself be before._

Looking at the simple village houses, the rolling hills and cliffs in the distance that indicate how close they are to the sea, she realizes that her journey has come down to this. First, it was helping Robin find his "happy ending" (with a dish of sadness on the side of that tale, her own personal love story that became all twisted and wrong in one instant)... Then Graham, in all his sweetness and melancholy and his dear, dear mother who became like her own... And now this.

True be told, she had begun to see that maybe she had a talent for reaching out to others like herself, those who had been scorned and hurt and broken.

She had been told she had a gift – and from the looks of her new surroundings, she will really need to believe in this.

True to her nature, she has only one item of luggage, containing all that she owns in the world. Currently, it is heavily resting in the grip of her right hand, the left clinging to the hat she is holding desperately onto the top of her head.

Her skirt whipping about her legs, Emma descends down the dirt path, obviously well-trodden if judging solely by appearance, and curses under her breath when she nearly stumbles into a rather large prickly pine tree. Now that she notices it, there are trees of many varieties anywhere her eyes glance upon, the greenery almost overwhelming in stark contrast to the sandy beach she can just glimpse beyond the boundary of the buildings and streets.

Nevertheless, the countryside and nearby wilderness are oddly complemented by the domesticity of the little town, so quaint and solid that it seems to belong to its own world, free from factories and smoke and the ever present "division of the classes." As if all is at peace, and life is as it should be.

The visible solitude in the place that is to be her new abode gives her both relief and a throb of agony, too many reminders and suppressed longing coming to the surface at once.

_He broke her heart. He gave her hope, then tore it away with his exposed lies. And worst of all, how she had loved him in return– _

Picking her steps carefully amid the muck and wet ground, she barely realizes where she is going until she unknowingly collides with a warm, quickly moving form. God, she must have been daydreaming again...

"Oi, watch where you're bloody going, will you?" The voice is very cross and irritated, disdain in every word. But when her gaze comes into focus and she looks up to see the stranger and apologize for her clumsiness, her breath gets caught in her throat and she nearly chokes on her whispered "_pardon me_."

Striking blue eyes glint at her pointedly, furrowed brow and grimace indicating just how displeased he is at being pummeled by her. Without saying anything in return, neither accepting nor even acknowledging her apology, his stare narrows into one of heat, and she flinches visibly under that angry sight.

Before she can get a really good look at him, he mutters something unintelligible, pulls back and steps around her, sauntering once again in the opposite direction.

He doesn't turn around to peek back at her, but she makes a note of his long black leather coat, the tousled dark hair that is being brushed constantly by the capricious winds.

Harrumphing at his rudeness, she straightens her skirt and coat and proceeds to head toward what she hopes is the new schoolhouse, her boots sinking into a particularly muddy hole that she couldn't avoid.

Staring at her stained petticoat and soiled shoes, she huffs in exasperation. _What a way to make a good first impression..._

* * *

"This will be your room, and the water closet is right in there. I'm sorry the place is so small, but the council couldn't afford to accommodate the new teacher any more than necessary – well, at least you have a garden out back, and there's lots of privacy..."

Emma tries to tune out the new girl's optimistic chatter – Mary Margaret Blanchard, was it? – because after one hell of a carriage ride and three straight days on horseback, she is too damn exhausted to give a care about the size of the so-called hut she would be living in behind the school, the sad excuse for a yard another dismal aspect of the whole presentation. It has only one room, and the only blessing of it is that she doesn't have to take care of "bodily needs" outside. Otherwise, her new "house" is a moldy, damp, and gloomy den – so _cozy_.

So very _encouraging_.

"Anyway, if there's anything you need, feel free to call on me or David – I live in the house just along the path, and he's on the farm two houses down."

She snaps to attention, blinking rapidly. "Um...thank you." Emma grins weakly, hoping her attempt at a cheerful expression fools Mary Margaret, who is not only unusually beautiful but also as graceful as a fairy, her movements ethereal as she tinkers through the furnishments with a visible glare of distaste. "I don't want to be a bother–"

"But you aren't!" she replies, knocking down an old pewter mug that was already toppling over the corner of a worn-out bookshelf. It crashes to the floor and dissipates in a puff of dust, and suddenly, the absurdity of it all – the long trip, the reason behind it, the desire for change and her fear of it – makes Emma chuckle. Then the girl with the snow white complexion and raven hair begins to laugh as well, until they both are wrapping their arms around their stomachs to hold back more peals of laughter.

"Well, this is quite a welcome," Emma finally retorts, dropping her bag next to the dilapidated bed and flopping down on the mattress, only to arouse another cloud of dust. Smiling, Mary Margaret joins her side, patting her tentatively on the shoulder when she sniffles and frowns at her clasped hands on her lap.

"Everything will be alright," Mary Margaret says kindly. "Hey, if you'd like...I can send David down here during the next few days – he's good with tools and fixing things, so maybe he can restore this place a bit? Help you get back on your feet?"

"Who's David?" she asks, sighing from exhaustion and defeat.

"Oh – how silly of me! David Nolan's my...well, we're betrothed." She glances from under her eyelashes. "He's a shepherd, but we have plans. We want to leave this village, see the world. With his mother, of course."

"How wonderful for you." Emma really doesn't have the energy or the patience to sound elated at this point. Instead, a wave of disappointment is trying to throttle her, and she's pushing it down with every breath she takes.

However, Mary Margaret seems to understand her better than she thinks, because she only gives her another warm, sympathetic smile in response before rising up and then reaching down to lift up a covered basket and lay it down on the oak table. "From Granny and Red – so you won't have to worry about cooking for a while."

Emma nods and bites her lower lip, preferring to stay silent. But right before Mary Margaret leaves, she sticks her head through the open entrance and says, "I can tell that this may look...unpromising...but I just want you to know that we're happy you're here, Emma. So...have hope that all will get better with time?"

The memory of the pure radiance and light in the girl's flawless face is what keeps Emma from bursting into tears after night falls, huddled in the moth-eaten covers as she watches the flame of her solitary candle flicker in the bitter wind.

_Alone and lost, just like her._

So much for new beginnings, when the past is haunting her at every turn.

It was a mistake to come here at all. Why had she agreed to this?

* * *

Despite her bloodshot eyes and runny nose the next morning, Emma puts on her best dress, combs her hair thoroughly and rolls it into a simple chignon, and checks her overall appearance in the cracked mirror hanging on the wall. She hesitates before departing, taking a minute to sneak a peek under the basket of goodies Mary Margaret's friends gave her. Surprisingly, it's a cornucopia of hearty wealth: scones, breads, a soup mix, pastries, and a large variety of vegetables and fruits adorn the sides and center, arranged decoratively in a circle.

Losing her appetite when she remembers where she has to go this instant, Emma dejectedly lowers the checkerboard patterned towel and hurries out the door, strangely eager to confront whatever future is waiting for her.

It doesn't take long to find out exactly what she's up against.

First, she has to sit through Sunday service, listening to some thin, red-haired man with spectacles drone on and on about the importance of listening to one's conscience, a mission in life dedicated to not only the finding of one's happiness but also helping others to find theirs as well. It isn't that she doesn't concur with anything he is saying.

She just despises people preaching at her – that's all.

By the time the sun is high in the sky, Emma is standing awkwardly by the minister as he beckons everyone to come to the schoolhouse, where the blessing and honorary first lesson will take place.

She also hates being the center of attention.

Still, she can't help feeling lighter inside when Mary Margaret approaches her and gently entwines her arm around hers, backed by a golden-haired, handsome smiling man who could only be the famous David Nolan.

He does indeed introduce himself as such, welcomes her to Storybrooke with as much charm as he can muster (because his schoolboy bashfulness seems to be more bountiful), and wordlessly escorts both her and his fiancé to their destination.

Out of the corner of her eye, Emma sees him enfold Mary Margaret's other hand in his own. Deep in her heart, she envies them, that they have trust in each other and their feelings. If only all could be so fortunate...

It hurts not to trust your own heart for fear it will break you.

Shaking these morose thoughts away, she puts on a wide smile for the sake of the children in front of her, all eagerly sitting in their plain wooden desks are in fact simple tables and benches. They are all ears after the minister's dedication, waiting for her next words. Clearing her throat, she takes a long look around the crowded room, at all the hopeful, doubtful parents who are dreaming of giving their offspring a good education and better prospects for tomorrow. They are counting on her, both the children and their parents.

Remembering how it began, how it ended, how it continues, Emma straightens her pose, grabs the piece of chalk from beside the blackboard, and starts to write.

"My name is Emma Swan – you can call me Miss Swan – and from today onward, I'm going to be your teacher."

She turns and faces them once more, standing tall by her fine cursive script etched out in white. "Welcome to my classroom."

* * *

**A/N: I know the first part's short, but it's a start, a jolt to drag me out of my pessimistic mood and writer's block. Don't know yet how many chapters this fic will have, but I'm aiming for a three-shot. (When oh when will I write a simple one-shot?!)**

**Thanks for reading, and please review!**


	2. Unsettled

**A/N: I've changed my mind. A three-shot is, in some ways, limiting, and I've realized that setting an objective chapter number or length is holding me back from writing what I want to write (I don't do well under pressure, obviously). **

**Therefore, in Hook's own words...I'm in this for the long haul. This will be a multi-chapter fic for as long as I want to make it, and the chapters will be considerably shorter (3000 – 5000 words) than what I'm used to doing (7000+ words). And when the story has been told, it will be done.**

**So I hope you're willing to wait and listen, as there's so much to tell, and I'm eager to share it with all you lovely readers... Thank you for following and favoriting and reviewing.**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing except the plot.**

CHAPTER II ― UNSETTLED

* * *

In Emma's opinion, one of life's greatest challenges is motivating people to do something they're not keen on doing at all. It was the reason why she had been so hesitant in even listening to Mother Superior's suggestion that she teach for a living.

_As if she really had any choices._ In these times, women... Well, the only thing they own is the position of "Mother and Housewife." And that is not a type of employment she will be considering anytime in the near present or future.

No, sidestepping youngsters ranging from five years old to fifteen in their efforts to distract and dissuade her from her set course of action to educate them is a much better solution to what she likes to call "the marriage problem."

Still, despite how aggravating the ogling stares of adolescent village boys and the high-pitched giggles of frolicking little girls are, she remembers how tough it was to discipline some of her other pupils under different circumstances, and it's safe to say that in the end she believes she has made substantial progress.

Clearing her throat to make her voice loud and true, she enunciates very pointedly and in no uncertain terms that disrespectful behavior of any kind will be not be tolerated in or outside the schoolroom, whether it is directed towards her or any of their classmates. Tardiness, absence without sufficient cause, and failing to complete assigned work will result in punishment.

When a few of the oldest boys sitting in the back snicker at this, Emma smirks and says that since the schoolhouse was refurbished so nicely, the townsfolk will be very happy to receive any _gratis_ aid in repairing their own houses, regarding whitewashing, thatching the roofs, general yardwork, repairing the outdoor water closets. Naturally, since she will be openly promoting compassion as another reputable virtue inside her classroom, they are very welcome to volunteer first to help their neighbors out of the goodness of their hearts.

If they fail to do as they've promised, she's quite sure they'll be hearing from other people besides their parents about not keeping their word and leaving their unfinished work hanging by a thread. And if anyone wants to become the classroom cleaner, washing the chalkboard and sweeping the floors after school five times a week, she can make that dream come true quicker than she can snap her fingers twice.

Needless to say, no one over the age of ten utters even a squeak for the rest of the morning.

Moreover, when it comes to subject matter, the children looked utterly bored by the prospect of learning their ABCs and 123s. She attempts to rouse their spirits by saying how useful these skills are, but one boy pipes up and says he's never even seen a book in his life, while a girl maybe eight years old objects to the idea of counting by stating that she'll be working a loom until she's as old as her granny, so what would she need numbers for?

Emma doesn't even dare to venture beyond mathematics and English, saving the purposes of history, science, art, Latin, and music for another day.

Nevertheless, the Sunday lesson flies by and ends well before lunchtime, and once her last student is out the door, she slumps in her teacher's chair and buries her face in her hands.

How is she going to do this?

How is she going to persuade them that this is worthwhile, when she couldn't even believe it herself?

* * *

Emma tells herself that it was just out of desperation that she accepted their invitation, that this has nothing to do with the fact that she likes their company and wants to see at least one friendly face in this town. That's why she's dressed in her best, standing on David's porch with a nervous expression and anxious feet skittering from side to side.

Oh, sure it is.

When she raises her hand to knock again, the door opens slowly of its own accord and an older, amiable looking woman peers out. She scrutinizes Emma for a moment; in that second of time, Emma worries that she'll be turned out and flung away like all those orphanages and possible parents had done to her before.

Instead, she is happily surprised when she is ushered inside as if she were one of the family. "Oh, you must be the Emma that David has been telling me about ― come in, my child, come in! You'll catch your death out here, standing in only that frock and with no leggings..."

She is David's mother, Ruth, and she has the heart of a lamb and the manners of a great lady. When she calls her Miss Swan, Emma asks all present to please call her by her first name, as she is a person and not a bird. That quip earns a smile from Ruth.

David grins fondly at Emma when he sees her being herded into a chair by the fireplace and instructed to remove her bonnet and shawl so they can get warm and dry by the roaring hearth. Mary Margaret, on the other hand, only chuckles as she stirs the cooking pot simmering on the stove.

They have shepherd's pie and crusty homemade bread for supper, followed by gooseberry pie and a gentle amount of wine. Surrounded by three people who seem to genuinely care what she thinks and feels, Emma basks in the attention and carries the conversations as far as she can, and when it's time to clean up, she offers to wash the dishes and Mary Margaret says she'll dry them, much to Ruth's protest.

Reminded of days gone by, Emma smiles when she overhears Ruth talking to David about the farm, the sheep, and when he'll finally marry Mary Margaret. The girl beside her smiles sheepishly herself and chokes on a stifled laugh when David starts to make excuses.

This home smells and speaks and breathes of family, of true love, of happiness. Emma can recognize poverty when she sees it, being an unwilling participant in its sorrows herself, but in spite of how little they have materially, David and his mother have the greatest treasure in this world. It's written in their faces, how much they care for those they love, and it's like a great light has entered into Emma's dark, dark world.

Now she knows why Mary Margaret shines throughout the day like a star, why David is a gentleman to every person he meets.

When Ruth offhandedly mentions that a girl like her will have a hard time of finding a husband, Emma laughs and asks why. Laughter gets passed around to all when she replies that men share a common fear: smart, clever women who are not only beautiful but also terribly outspoken.

Before she departs to return to her lonely one-room cottage, she sadly declines Ruth's proposal that she stay overnight and sleep over... Because she is wishing with all her might that this was her family, that she could stay here forever and never leave.

If only that were true. _If only._

* * *

"Darn it!" David swears loudly, nursing a red, bruised thumb after his hammer swings the wrong direction. He is currently replacing the wooden tiles on the roof, determined to finish the job before sunset. "If only Killian were here, instead of tending to his ego and hiding away in that secluded glen of his..."

Emma looks up, putting the bucket of soapy water down on the ground. It's her first Saturday here after one whole week of being Storybrooke's schoolteacher. For herself, she has learned that initially, Mary Margaret offered to be the schoolteacher, but she had only experience in watching over some of the younger children and she had never taught anyone in her life. It looks like she was the next best option...

Rolling her eyes, she glances at her handiwork, the outside of the house now gleaming and sparkling. The walls are made of stacked stones covering bricks, so the most that can be done is securing the windows and resealing the edges, replacing that broken door with a new one, and cleaning out the inside. David has kept his promise and visited during the week to start on the outside tasks, little steps leading to an improved chimney _― _Emma and Mary Margaret couldn't stop laughing when they saw his woeful, blackened face after tackling the age-old soot monsters inside _― _and a better overall exterior. She has been cleaning and cleaning and cleaning while he has been hammering and nailing and pulling apart what must be a centuries old foundation, but David has a good eye and the entire building now actually looks like a house instead of a dump heap.

Presently, she processes her friend's ― _yes, she wants to be friends with David and Mary Margaret ―_ complaint and dares to ask, "So who's Killian?"

He chuckles in response and says, "No old women gossiping in the street corners have clouded your judgment yet?"

She smiles and shakes her head.

"Well, as you'll soon hear, he is what I call the town's only scapegoat. I swear ― the narrow-minded have nothing better to do than to pick on him, of all people."

"Why ― what has he done?"

David scoffs. "Absolutely nothing. He moved here about five years ago, from the city. Wouldn't say where he's from or what his history is, but he was looking for work and...much like you, he was given a position that most wouldn't be eager to accept."

She half-grins, brushing sweaty hair out of her eyes. "He's the mayor?"

"Very funny, Emma." He sighs. "He's...uh...the lighthouse keeper."

Emma swivels slowly, staring in all directions. "There's a _lighthouse_ here?"

"Yes...but see, it's far from the center of Storybrooke, and it's very isolated. The path to it is a long hike, and the cottage that's adjoining it is surrounded by nature's wildlife. Not exactly a place you'd want if you're planning on being social. It's also a constant job, making sure the lighthouse is always in order." David groans as he climbs down the ladder. "I mean, who wants to be working all the time?"

"The extra wages probably don't hurt," she comments wryly, double-checking that the handkerchief wrapped around her head is securely keeping her hair dry and dirt-free. It's more difficult to keep herself clean than the damn windowsills...

"True, that," he says with a lopsided grin. Then his expression drops into sadness, sympathy in his eyes. "But that's just it ― Killian doesn't do it for the money ― as little as it is. He pushes himself relentlessly into his tasks and seldom withdraws from them, and let's just say that someone as...unusual as he is has gained more than a few distrusting and jealous glances from some of the townspeople, because they don't understand why he has chosen such a life for himself. They simply believe the rumors and refuse to see the honest man in front of them." Then David suddenly clears his throat and noticeably changes the subject, but Emma doesn't press him for more information about this mysterious man. "Speaking of work, how's the new school going, Emma?"

One brow raised in reply, she hesitates, concentrating instead on helping him lower the bucket of nails that had been resting on the second-to-last rung near the top of the ladder. "It's...well..." She bites her lip and squints at the horizon, the sun blinding her and leaving sunspots in her vision when she finally looks away to gaze back at him. "It's complicated. The children...they're not receptive to what I'm teaching."

He frowns. "If they're misbehaving, I can go to their p―"

"No, it's not that at all," she denies hurriedly. "It's that...they're listening, but not really listening." Rubbing her temples, she tries to explain. "It's that the material I'm supposed to teach them is not sinking in, so to speak. I've used pictures and diagrams and everything imaginable to help them understand and retain what they've heard and seen, but it's...not working."

Emma settles herself on the low fence encircling the property, ignoring the cold feel of the flat stone under her skin. Looking concerned, David sits next to her, his respectful silence encouraging her to continue speaking her thoughts. "I want to teach them what I know, to find so much beyond what they have already through knowledge and reading and discovery. To not be afraid to broaden their views. But I need to reach them first, to have a way to _connect_ with them. Number and figures and words aren't that way."

"They need more," David punctuates easily, a kindred spirit in her own time of need for understanding.

_Yes, but how to accomplish that..._

* * *

During the next several days after the dreaded first week is over, Emma thinks little of the elusive "Killian" between her new friendships and adjusting to her new routine. Each morning she rises with the dawn, preparing the few books she owns to take with her to the school, scrambling eggs on a pan over the small open stove over the hearth, having breakfast while bemoaning the loss of all those glorious books Graham had. He had proposed she take whatever she wanted, but how would that have worked?

She is more or less a nomad, so carting around boxes full of books would not only be impractical but also impossible... God, she misses her stories. The ancient and the contemporary, musings and narratives, the serious and the humorous. Reading brings sunlight to a rainy day, comfort in a time of grief, flowers in the midst of spring.

She can't even have that, as this wretched hole of a village doesn't have a library.

Most of her students have chores at home to complete or younger siblings to look after, so school begins early and only lasts until lunchtime. After ascertaining that the classroom is in top shape, the remaining hours until dusk are for Emma to do with as she pleases.

Which is why she is now undertaking that most dreaded of errands, something she has always loathed: shopping.

She scans the shelves for the items she needs to purchase, stopping every once in a while to look at something either repulsive or fantastical. Both categories are beyond her expenditure range.

Fortunately, those in charge of the establishment are very nice and helpful. Granny sits behind the counter, yawning after her long night running the local tavern, while Red organizes some parts of the shop that are in slight disarray. Mary's best friend is every inch the lovely lady as well, natural beauty coating her from head to toe. For a girl living in the middle of nowhere, she is dressed impeccably and up to taste with the fashions, attractively vivid but not gaudy. Her personality matches her looks, but while Mary Margaret is very forgiving and maintains her temper well, Red has the fiery eyes and ear of a wolf, never forgetting a slight or wrong move and quite passionate about voicing her opinions on the spot, whether they be positive or negative.

In other words, Emma likes her a lot. After all, honesty and boldness do wonders amid a world full of stuffy, judgmental―

The windchimes hanging above the door jingle merrily as it opens, and from the corner of her eye, Emma can see a cloaked figure slip through.

"Why hello there, stranger," Red greets teasingly, watching as her grandmother disappears into the back of the store. She goes to take her place. "It's been a while since you've been in this neck of the woods." When whoever it is doesn't respond right away, Emma hopes she is well hidden and peeks between the shelves.

When she reflects back, she really wasn't prepared for what she saw.

* * *

The man leaning across the counter, his stance both cocky and self-assured, is without a doubt the handsomest man she has ever seen. From his would-be beard, dark bristle accentuating his strong jawline, to his sharp facial features and elegant physique, he looks like...

A warrior on the prowl, judging by his steady hands and ready feet, muscles tense from being so alert.

A pirate ready to raid, his smirk devilish and very, _very_ dangerous. The way his lips move speaks of eloquence and wit and charm and intelligence.

He can be a rogue, an adventurer, a scholar. He can be everything and anything.

When his eyes, colored like the sky and the ocean and every bit of water on earth, flicker over various areas of the shop, she decides he might be a spirit of air like in her stories, created by the wind and breathing life into the world around him. Yes, he has that commanding presence, that demand for attention. And it's not just his appearance ― it's _him_. She can feel that there's more to him than what a mirror would show.

Having not even listened to the words exchanged between him and Red, Emma finds herself with her mouth agape, her hands clenching the edge of the soft wood. If he only notices how she is staring at him...

"―they look fine, but I haven't sold any of the last ones you gave me. Additionally...when customers start asking who made them...it makes selling them..._tricky_," Red excused, waving her hands about like she did when she was nervous. Or embarrassed.

His voice feels like velvet against her ears, accented and spicy and smooth. "Ah, I see. Because they're mine ― right, love?"

The girl shrugs, a small, pitying half-smile on her face. "It's not my fault, Killian. You know what this town thinks of you ― well," she snorts, "the nitpickers in it, anyway."

Killian. _Killian_.

Not that Killian ― the one David defended, the one he spoke of as a friend would. Not the Killian Mary Margaret described in passing just the other day, the tormented artist and former sailor who had no family, no friend, no one. The outcast who is called a daft cripple behind his back, because of his lost left hand. The one who is mocked by the majority of the town, called a coward and a philanderer.

When he turns at the sound of her loud gasp, she recognizes him. _The rude stranger who she ran into on her way to town._

Slowly, Emma emerges from her hiding spot, clutching at the basket in her hands. Her knuckles have become white from the strain.

"Emma! Ready?" Red seems relieved and apprehensive at the same time, and as for the enigmatic Killian... He is eyeing her up and down, his gaze lingering on certain parts of her. If his perusal were any more heated, it would burn her.

She won't blush. _She won't._

The counter is wide, but she can almost touch Killian's hip with her own as she takes her stand next to him, placing her purchases on top of the polished plank so Red can count them up. Lying next to his still hand are a bunch of pendants, appearing to be carved of wood and beaded into necklaces.

The silence is downright oppressive, the weight of the man's stare burdening her shoulders and her head and her very bones. _Damn it_ ― now she has a headache. It doesn't help that her body is reacting in a very particular, very familiar way to his proximity. She thought she had put such foolish wishes behind her in the past, when a certain brown-eyed gentleman had caught her heart and hung it out to dry in the gusts of anguish.

"So..." Red is frantically trying to dispel the tension. "Emma, have you met Killian before?"

Rolling her eyes and sighing deeply, Emma accepts that there's no escaping this. She'll have to look at him. "We've met. Once." She gathers her courage and then sees there's nothing to fear. "You were...in a hurry."

With one brow raised cheekily, he has the most sardonic smile and mischievous gaze she's ever seen. But underneath...there's this hint of hardness, the smallest sign of pain. Pain that he's desperately trying to hide for the sake of everyone present. The fortress of his soul is an impenetrable one, she'd guess, and from the looks of it, he's trapped miserably inside.

"Aye..." His eyes narrow and then widen from recognition. "You're the lass who nearly knocked me to the ground when I was headed down the path last week!"

Emma wants to fling a retort at him. She really does. But she unconsciously searches for the stump that Mary Margaret said repulses all the men and the women too (well, they say they're repulsed...). When she looks at him again, his expression has visibly darkened.

Knowing when to avoid a storm, she ducks her head and nods. "I'm sorry for that. Truly. I had just come to Storybrooke ― and it was very windy that day. I'm Emma Swan."

Red explains, "She's the new schoolteacher."

"Ah." He is still scrutinizing her, but it's evident his mind is elsewhere. Then he awakens from his daze and introduces himself, extending his right hand. "A pleasure to meet you, Miss Swan," he purrs flirtatiously. "I'm Killian Jones. I take care of―"

"―the lighthouse." Emma nods again. When she tentatively gives him her hand, he surprises her by kissing it like a gentleman would...but the feel of his mouth on her skin is doing very unsettling things to her stomach. His fingers caress hers, and she's beside herself.

She wants to get out. To run. To take a step back, away from him. He's trouble. He's out of bounds.

Even though she recalls David's words perfectly and feels sorry, she cannot stay and get better acquainted. She can't do anything but say polite nothings and bid her farewells. She doesn't want such an attractive man anywhere near her, for her safety's sake.

Killian is not what she expected, and now that the flames have licked at her feet, she is dancing around them in an effort to survive. Stranger and stranger he is, because he belongs more to the sea than to fire, smelling of earth and woodland and salty air.

She must look terrified, for he drops her hand almost apologetically, as if he had done something to her. "Uh...how much do I owe you?" she directs at Red.

Taking out a ledger, she scribbles something down. "No worries, Emma ― I put it on your account until you get your first wages from the council. Granny won't mind."

Murmuring her thanks and her goodbyes, Emma glances at Killian, who is staring at her once more. He is puzzled and transfixed and _broken_ ― so, so broken, that it's a dagger to her heart, reminding her of herself. _It hurts...it all hurts so much..._

The last thing she hears before the door closes shut is his whispered "I'll be seeing you around, _Swan_."

* * *

**A/N: Thanks again for reading, and please review!**


	3. Lonely Is My Heart

**A/N: The mystery continues...because there definitely are flashbacks in this fic. Thank you so much for all the follows and favorites and reviews!**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot.**

CHAPTER III – LONELY IS MY HEART

* * *

_When Robin invited her to the ball, she really had no intentions of attending. She decided ― adamantly ― that she would make up some worthy excuse and stay at home with the children, burrowing in her bed and reading some daring book._

_Needless to say, that plan didn't work at all._

_Its failure is the reason why she is sitting here, dressed in some absurd light, puffy blue gown. Simple white gloves, curled hair, and heeled slippers ― she has missed nothing, trying to look her best so she won't embarrass her employer._

_The man himself is somewhere in the corner of the ballroom, having his fiancé and a bevy of business acquaintances and his group of close friends. They are talking merrily and laughing loudly, and Emma knows from Robin's bright smile that he's very happy._

_Regina... Not so much. She looks a bit disgruntled by her audience, but when Robin notices her discomfort and tucks her hand into the crook of his elbow, she positively glows, and Emma has every reason to believe that the woman's answering smile is fully genuine._

_The one she herself has plastered on her face like a painted doll reeks of boredom and unease. She's always hated being in a crowd, feeling exposed and, if she's being honest with herself, a bit neglected._

"_Some party," comes an all-too familiar sneer from her left. _

_Looking up, she sees Neal decked out in a classic suit. In moments like these, he doesn't look like a servant at all. In fact, neither of them do. For a second, he is a gentleman and she is a lady, not the stable boy and the governess thrust into a world that they clearly don't belong to. A world where fine clothes and rich brandy and meaningless talk pervade the fancy mansions and fur-lined pockets of the well-to-do. Where money is more important than virtue, where who you are becomes what you are, where status exceeds stature ― not the other way around._

"_Yes, it's really something, isn't it?" she finally breathes out, her hands delicately placed in her lap in the style of a proper lady's. _

_Neal smirks, shoving his hands into his pockets. "It's really...monotonous, if you ask me. The same thing over and over again, like on a cheap stage. Same actors, same lines, same faces, same act. Nothing's new."_

_She can't help but smile at that, seeing exactly what he does. They are so alike that it's not even amusing anymore. Instead, it's wonderful and exciting and terrifying― _

_He interrupts her thoughts. "It's your first time at one of these, isn't it?"_

_She ducks her head, recalling how the nuns would take all the girls at the school out for brief excursions, not wanting to encourage any unnecessary seclusion. "My first ball, yes. My first outing, no."_

"_I see." He bites his lip momentarily, seeming to be internally debating something, before he straightens and steps forward so that he is facing her. His hand is outstretched, reaching for her. "Care to dance?"_

"_What?" She peers around and doesn't notice any other of the staff joining in the activities. "I don't think we're allowed, Neal."_

_He loudly snorts, still offering his hand to her. "Then let's break tradition." His warm smile melts her inhibitions and sends a shiver through her heart. "Come on ― dance with me, Emma."_

_She's learned how to waltz and all that, but when he sweeps her into his arms and glides with her across the smooth waxed floor, their feet seem to fly across the polished stone. And when he twirls her about, she cares less what everyone else thinks. She disregards Robin's surprised stare, Regina's intrigued glances, the whole of society's scorn. She doesn't wonder how a man who's worked all his life ever found the time to learn how to waltz._

_In that instant, when she's safe yet free, embraced by a man who treats her as his equal and his friend, she realizes that this is so much more than a mere dance or a means of slighting the pride of the privileged._

_Against her will, she's falling in love with him._

* * *

Emma can't figure it out, but she keeps running into Killian Jones more than is coincidentally possible. Being a recluse, she would think he would be more..._reclusive_. David said the man was basically hiding out in his house near the sea cliffs, but she could be turning past a street corner, finding the pebbled path leading to the small docks that constituted the town harbor, or browsing the display windows of the few shops in business ― and there he would be, traipsing through the village, seemingly going in the same direction for other purposes.

Maybe he was, maybe he wasn't, but that doesn't justify why he has taken it upon himself to gaze at her as if she has just dropped down from the moon to pay earth a visit.

Shaking her head from exasperation, Emma clucks her tongue disapprovingly when she notices Killian's lanky shadow reaching her from across the street, meaning that he is again striding in time with her. When she complained once to Mary Margaret, the girl would only smile and say, "It's a small town." David was much worse, suggesting that the lighthouse keeper just might like her ― and he emphasized his masculine analysis with a dramatic, charming smile and wink.

She doesn't believe either explanation, even though both are highly plausible. And if she's being truly honest with herself, it has to do with one thing: she doesn't like Killian or his attitude. She will admit that he's very handsome and probably affable if he puts his mind to it, but his tendency to usually imitate Lord Byron, if only in spirit, is getting on her nerves whenever their paths cross.

Her arms hugging her chest, she peers at Killian from under her eyelashes and decides that the cloud of broodiness constantly hanging over his head never dissipates, no matter the weather or the company he trudges by. The one adjective she can think of is _morbid_. But now that she's charted out his moods and behavior from a distant perspective (in other words, her first impression of him, to the best of her ability), today appears to be the day that all of her assumptions are proven wrong.

There goes David, whistling cheerily as he walks up toward them, his eyes fixed on the ground ― and then he looks up. Emma moves to approach him, already preparing for a conversation and _et cetera_...but while Mary Margaret's fiancé briefly acknowledges her presence, his attention is focused entirely on Killian.

She feels ignored in an instant when he goes right to her would-be admirer, but no one notices her crestfallen face.

They act like they've known each other for years and years. Their camaraderie is visible even from afar: David is slapping Killian on the shoulder, and Killian is grinning broadly, his expression exuding friendliness and genuine happiness. They're like brothers as they jest back and forth, talking animatedly and gesturing occasionally as the topics shift. For the first time, Jones looks like a whole person instead the shattered ghost that tried to flirt with her in Red's store.

That is why Emma doesn't stop, doesn't even attempt to join in and be included in their circle. She knows what it is to be invisible, to be excluded, and while it's understandable that David would speak first to his friend that he hasn't seen for weeks, it still hurts that he wouldn't care about her being there too.

As if she weren't there at all. _Nobody ever cares about me._

Averting her gaze, she wraps her arms closer about her, the wind tugging on her hair, and plows onward, wishing for hot soup and blankets and shuttered windows, her little house now a selfish haven she can run to.

Her pace quickens when she hears David or Killian ― she can't tell who ― call out what could be her name, and she refuses to turn back, determined to leave.

She's so tired of being second-best with everyone in her life, but it's her fate, from the looks of it, and she has to deal with it with as much dignity as she can muster.

That doesn't mean she has to like any of it.

* * *

_Another dinner at Ruth's, and Emma is settling into a lovely routine where three people seem to really care about her well-being. She's never found such kindness among strangers, and as for her former friends...well, they changed with the weather._

_Smiling as she hears Mary Margaret converse with David's mother, who is sitting on her rocking chair and knitting a scarf, Emma takes charge of the dirty dishes this time and quickly makes work of them, eventually humming to keep her mind occupied._

_She is startled when David sidles up next to her and offers to dry, but they do well and are finished with the chore before she can hum her tune twice._

"_So," he starts apathetically, "when will your family be coming to visit?"_

_Emma stiffens immediately at the mere mention of the raw, adulterated subject, but then she accepts that he is only asking because he is concerned for her. She's the one who has been complaining recently about loneliness and how it makes a person see the future all too clearly. _

"_I, um, am not expecting anyone," she replies after a few minutes of silence, wrapping the wet dishcloth over its designated drying pole. When David gives her a curious look, she softly clarifies, "I don't have any family."_

_The pain in her tone must have warded him away from asking any more questions about her history, because David only says, "Oh," and turns his head._

_She sighs, but then that breath of relief is short-lived when he pipes up and comments absently, "You know, Killian was asking about you just the other afternoon..." _

_If she were still holding a dish in her hands, it would have clattered to the floor._

* * *

The next evening, after a rather strenuous day of teaching, Emma is sitting quietly in front of the fireplace, staring past her clean laundry and re-organized goods, meditating on what might have been and what had been, her memories painting winsome pictures before her, their edges touched by the flames. Stars are blinking at her outside her tiny windows, a sign that night has inevitably come, and slowly, painfully, she pulls a handful of letters from the inside of her suitcase, all encased in ribbons and broken wax seals.

She finds one that she remembers very well, the last epistle that Neal ever sent to her. His scrawls are remarkably beautiful and elegant, and she marvels how she did not see it from the beginning, how different he was from everyone else in Locksley's household. "_Dearest Emma_," it reads, "_I have wanted for so long―_"

Then someone knocks ― rather insistently, too ― and interrupts her sad musings.

Flustered at her nonchalant appearance and informal apparel, rubbing harshly at her treacherous wet eyes and nose with her handkerchief, Emma grabs the nearest shawl and nearly trips over her own feet on her way to the door.

It's David, and surprise of surprises, a rather shy Killian beside him, pointedly glancing down at his feet and looking very nervous. The lighthouse keeper is dressed all in black, worn leather and flannel intermixing to make him bold and stylish, his left arm tucked behind his back in hiding. In fact, he looks...very _nice_. On the other hand, the shepherd is in his normal attire, brown trousers and white shirt covered by his thick fleece coat. As usual.

"Hello, Emma," David greets cheerfully, giving her a wide smile. Killian just rubs at the back of his neck with his good hand, his embarrassment showing. Though it's quite dark, she can tell that he's blushing.

"Good evening, David." She doesn't lessen her hold on the door. "What can I do for you?"

"I've ― well, we've come to rescue you."

She is very confused now, and she must look how she feels, because poor David is stumbling over his words. "Uh ― well, that is to say ― didn't she ― Mary Margaret _didn't_ invite you over for dinner tonight?"

_Oh darn_. She forgot. Burying her head in the well of her deepest troubles, she had not bothered to mull over the day's events, the market chatter between her and her friend dimming in the background. "Oh." Emma chews on her tongue, trying to come up with a polite way to rectify this horrible _faux pas_. "David, I apologize, but..." She sighs in defeat, realizing that she is still holding the letter in her hand. "I won't be able to come tonight."

Killian's head snaps up suddenly, his brow furrows, and his eyes narrow. "It's not bad news, I hope?" he rasps, his worried gaze burning a hole into the piece of paper she's treasuring, flickering between that and her face. She instantly drops it on the floor.

She doesn't want to look at him, and she makes a point not to answer him. At this moment, with her ache so fresh and tender to the touch, she wants nothing more than for him to disappear ― he and his stealthy, following, annoying habits. But he disregards how she purses her lips in dismay, bending over to retrieve the fallen article and to hand it tentatively to her. She nods her thanks, still not meeting his line of sight.

David, however... A stab of guilt pricks her heart when she sees his disappointed frown, and she hastens to excuse herself. "I forgot that I promised Mary Margaret ― please, give her my apologies." She breathes in deeply, gulping in as much air as possible in order to hold back the tears balancing on the corners of her eyelids when her name, written in Neal's cursive, comes into view again. "Besides, I've already eaten, and I wouldn't be a good guest―"

He's kindly when he proposes, "You can still come, Emma, food or not ― why, I've been so occupied at the farm lately that I haven't had the chance to spend as much time with Mary Margaret as I ought to. Killian here ― he'll be coming as well, and I'm sure he'd welcome your company very much..."

She swallows hard, salt and water running down her throat. She knows what this is, can recall the same words and lines spoken to her by many. The reason Mary Margaret had invited her to her own house, not Ruth's, was because she and David were planning on inviting Killian from the beginning and most likely had done so before they asked her.

It's a safe presumption that they could be trying to push her and him together. Why not? _Those that are broken cannot belong to a whole, after all._

The glance Killian furtively bestows on her isn't arrogant or ablaze at all. No, it's sheepish and timid and, underneath all the pessimism, _hopeful_. He actually _wants_ this, for her to agree. She can read it in his eyes, and because her instincts are always true, he isn't lying.

She had been wrong before. _She is always wrong, about everything..._

Emma wants to go. She really does, even if being so close to Killian for the remainder of the evening is going to make her very, _very_ uncomfortable. But images from the past are looming behind her, locked within that tiny room, and as much as she wants to escape from them, part of her heart is comforted by the good moments that she remembers, despite the bad ones.

It's a raging torrent, these thoughts, and she trembles under their combined weight. "I just can't," she finally whispers in response, watching Killian's face fall hard and David's gaze sadden all in one blow. Unable to say anymore, choking on a muffled sob, she slowly closes the door in front of them, blocking out light that would drive away the shadows.

After she hears their footfalls and murmurs eventually recede from her doorstep, a torrent of ungodly noises pour from her mouth and she's cringing on the ground, rocking to and fro on her heels while covering her eyes with her hands.

She misses the past more than she hates it, and that truth hurts more than anything else.

* * *

The next time she's in the supply store, it's right after her monthly stipend is due. The council has been very strict, counting down to the very last cent, but Emma is happy that she has been paid at all. Her students are restless and rebellious, but when she lectures them, they make an effort to sit up straight and listen to her, and that must count for something. Still, she would like to know for certain that at least some part of her teaching is getting through to them.

Red is dusting the shelves and Granny is nowhere in sight. Emma hurries through her purchases, hunting down milk and flour and soap and the small items she can barely afford to buy, preparing her money by the counter as the wolf-girl tallies the sale price.

Just as she's about to hand out the correct number of coins, she spots wood and seashells moving with the soft wind trickling through the windows, hanging on a small stand by the register. They sway back and forth, and she's mesmerized by the reflecting colors, the simple but beautiful designs. In her mind, she chooses the one she likes best, argues with her inner self that it's alright to spend a little on her vanity from time to time, and solidifies that decision when she takes out the amount needed to acquire one.

"I'll take one of those pendants as well," she announces, despising that her voice comes out as an embarrassed squeak.

Red gives her a piercing look. "You do know who made it, right?"

She nods once.

"And you still want to―?"

Now Emma's the one to glare. "Yes," she growls out rather rudely (well, that how she hears herself), grabbing the particular pendant she likes best and slamming the allotted money down on the table. To her credit, Red only crooks a brow expressively and says nothing more, a knowing smirk on her lips.

Emma's wearing her new piece of "jewelry" the moment she's out the door, perfectly carved swan and small blue stones hanging easily around her neck.

Proudly flaunting it, she also turns her nose up at the old women at the street corner who mutter derisively when she passes by them, ignoring their thin whispers of gossip and their silly ogling.

In her opinion, they should get over their prejudice and live their own lives. Godless sinner or not, Killian Jones made this pendant with his bare hand, and for the record, it's an absolutely breathtaking, meticulous work of art.

She never goes anywhere without it from that day on.

* * *

It would be an obvious lie to say that she doesn't miss David and Mary Margaret. Ever since she declined their dinner invitation because of her sudden state of mourning and her rather rude rejection of Killian, she hasn't seen much of either of them, and it hurts inside. Maybe she's being too self-absorbed, but her friendly couple have been very considerate to her, helping her find her way around and accustom herself to a new place.

And, she tells herself rather begrudgingly, Killian really hasn't done anything wrong that she should be avoiding him so readily.

In spite of her better judgment, she keeps doing it nonetheless ― ducking into darkened alcoves between buildings when she sees him emerge from the main path, making a note of the stores he visits, always keeping an eye on her surroundings and who's present in them.

If anyone knew why, she would be quite mortified to admit the reason behind her new behavior.

She reminds herself that _he_ started it, this growing fixation that included his leers and frequent appearance in her vicinity. So she promises herself that she will end it, one way or another.

One afternoon, when class is dismissed and she has no chores to do or duties to fulfill, she sees the sun shining down gleefully and makes the impulsive choice to head down to the seashore. The atmosphere of the quiet, tight-knit, oppressive Storybrooke has gotten on her nerves so much lately that she can't bear it anymore, and with a picnic basket in one hand and her sketchbook in the other, Emma stomps down the sandy trail to descend to the water's edge. And there's no Killian in sight.

* * *

She gathers a few seashells. She trails her bare toes in the ocean lapping at the shoreline and yelps when the shock of the icy water gives her chills, yanking on her stockings as soon as she's able to. She lies down in full view of the sun, warming her skin and her disposition at the same time.

Some might say it's scandalous for a single, unmarried woman like herself to be out alone, unattended and with her legs splayed across the golden sand. She cares less and takes comfort in the lulling waves and calming sounds of birds calling out, the heavens meeting the earth, the silence that isn't eerie but consoling.

She loves it here, and she doesn't want to leave.

When Emma convinces herself to get up from her roosting spot and explore some more, she discovers an old abandoned dinghy tied to a decaying log. Being extremely stubborn and bored and more determined that necessarily reasonable, she drags the expired nautical contraption to the water, set on climbing in and sailing for a bit.

It certainly doesn't work out that way.

* * *

Firstly, she knew that there were no oars present to speak of, but when she's actually in the boat and it's miraculously not leaking, she learns through hardship that using a long piece of rough wood is not the same as a carved, polished device meant for navigation.

Secondly, there is no sail, the rudder breaks completely apart on her second try to control it, and the makeshift oar is rapidly torn from her hands and disappears faster than she can react.

Thirdly, she is uninformed about the time of the rising tide, but the waves are becoming higher and more violent the longer she sails in this wretched wooden implement.

When water spills inside and she gets soaked, feeling the boat become very heavy and start to sink under makes Emma panic instantly, and she's almost screeching as she fails to propel the hull in the direction of the beach. She's getting farther and farther away from land, she doesn't know how to swim, she's getting very cold from her wet clothes, and worst of all, no one is aware of her little misadventure―

The next few minutes fly by a little too fast for her to fully comprehend.

Between her cries for help, her refusal to leave the boat, and her flailing limbs, a pair of strong arms pull her out and guide her through the water, holding her close and not letting go. He's soothing her with repeated directions, telling her to keep her head above the waves and kick her legs, his breath fanning her cheek, his nearness bringing her warmth―

When they collapse onto the sand, she takes a moment to recollect herself, gasping and coughing nonstop. She sits up on her elbows, and her eyes open gradually.

Her gaze lands on none other than Killian Jones, who is sputtering and gagging seawater. His hair and clothing are drenched, and she gapes at how the latter adheres to his skin, outlining some things that were better left undefined...

Realizing her mouth is going dry, she shakes herself from her prolonged staring and inquires if he is alright. He confirms that he is, wrings some droplets from the tails of his shirt, and then crawls over to her, scrutinizing her form. He looks anxious and distracted before his stance relaxes and he is assured she is uninjured, but that doesn't stop him from directing what she thinks is concern over her safety into exasperation at her foolishness.

"What were you thinking, woman, testing the bloody waves in that flimsy piece of goddamned driftwood? Why test fate and the sea's mercy ― you could have drowned! And if I hadn't―"

She involuntarily tunes out his voice, passionately irate and melodic as it is, and focuses instead on how sleek his moistened dark curls are, the lines of his face accentuated up close, his mouth reddened from the frigid air―

When she hears nothing and thinks that his tantrum is over, she finds herself being wrapped in his arms again, and then they're moving.

"Let me down!" she insists, struggling weakly in his embrace.

This time he's the one to roll his eyes. Wordlessly, he hefts her up to get a good, tight grip on her body as he carries her away. "Just be quiet and enjoy the ride, love. We've got a ways to go yet."

When he nearly stumbles on his third step, she clutches at his shirt desperately. They are inches apart, noses nearly brushing, eyes meeting reluctantly. He is staring at her lips, and she is following the movement of his wandering tongue as it licks over his teeth, and the heat is rising...and it has nothing to do with the sunlight.

She whimpers softly when the back of his hand slowly caresses her jawline ― but he groans from the added weight pressing on his arms, and their mutual trance is broken.

Nevertheless, she leans into him, resting her face near his neck so that the top of her head is tucked under his chin, and he shuffles slightly before sauntering once more, careful of where he places his feet.

They don't say another word to each other until they reach her door, but all the while, she can feel his heart beneath her cheek, pounding wildly and erratically.

And for the first time since making his acquaintance, she smiles.

* * *

**A/N: Please review!**


	4. Temptation

**A/N: Pure, slow-burning Captain Swan up ahead.**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing except the plot.**

CHAPTER IV – TEMPTATION

* * *

As she shivers, her wet garments increasingly unpleasant against her skin, Emma can't stop watching Killian's every movement. It's not simply his unusual good looks, wet dark hair swept over his forehead and trim figure striding lithely around her home as his striking eyes glance at her more often than not. Even the way he bends over to place several logs in her fireplace, the flourishing gesture he uses to light a precious match and deposit it quickly amongst the wood ― it speaks of grace and strength. _Both of which he just used to save her life._

The awkward silence, however, is starting to make her squirm in her seat. _She should say something. _"Thank you," she breaks through uncertainly, "for being a gentleman and saving me. It was a...noble gesture."

He smirks, but the smile on his lips doesn't really reach his eyes. "Oh, I'm always a gentleman, love."

Still, the manner in which he brushes off her gratitude ― and she senses he knows _exactly_ how hard it is for her to thank anyone ― is rubbing Emma the wrong way. Biting her bottom lip, she dares to proceed and voice her thoughts. "I, uh, understand, but you didn't have to save me, and―"

"But I did." His gaze is now glazed with fire. "Because I wanted to. Because I wanted to _help you_. God, do you value your life so little, that you judge others also share in your conviction that you are worthless?"

His words are whiplash against her ears, but in her heart, she knows that what he is saying has truth in it. Nevertheless, she finally looks down at the ground, wanting to escape his perusal. And though she feels the need to respond, no right retorts form in her mind.

So she stares at the fireplace instead, ignoring his question. It's much easier to hide her shock at his honesty and how he has seen through her than to probe at it.

_He can't care about her. He barely knows her. He doesn't like her. He can't._

"You really need to change out of those wet clothes, love."

She can't believe what she is hearing at first, but on second thought, his advice makes sense and has merit. The problem is that he is just standing there, staring at her, expecting her to get up and act on it. Crossing her arms over her chest protectively, she huffs and says, "I'm not doing anything when you're here."

A single moment passes afterwards, giving her enough time to process her choice of words and the sudden look of deep hurt on his face before it becomes simply impassive.

"Well then...I'll just let myself out then," he replies, bowing slightly before he heads toward the door.

When water leaves a steady trail over the polished wood, she leaps from her chair and hastens to his side, instinctively grabbing at his arm to prevent him from touching the doorknob. "No ― wait ― I didn't mean it like that ―"

"I may have lost my hand, Swan, but I still have my sight, and I can damn well see when a lady needs her privacy. I can see," he whispers more aggressively, more forcefully, more deeply, "where and when I'm not _wanted_."

It is her turn to burn ― but this time from embarrassment and regret. Damn it, couldn't he tell that she was still ashamed of her foolish notion, her current situation, _her inexplicable attraction to him_...? "No, no," she denies, wringing her hands and then stopping when she notices how desperate it makes her look, "I don't want you to go. Please don't. You're," she glances at his soaking wet shirt and trousers, "you're dripping water on my floor."

He smirks without mirth. "Well pardon me, lass, for ruining your fine décor―"

"_Would you just listen for a moment?_" She nearly loses her patience with him, but a heavy sigh and a close of her eyes later, she's prepared. "If you go out in those clothes, you'll catch your death. At least...stay and warm yourself by the fire." She blushes during her next offer. "I, um, don't have any gentleman attire on hand, but I can give you a blanket, and your garments can dry next to mine..."

Her cheeks feel like they are literally on fire, her mouth is exceedingly dry, and when he only raises an eyebrow at her in return, she bites her bottom lip anxiously and calls herself simple-minded. Then she sees her fingers gently curling over his arm. His left arm. The one that's missing a particular attachment. But she doesn't pull away. The loss doesn't frighten her. No, loss doesn't mean _less_ ― it means _more_. It means survival and fortitude and ― _God, he's gazing down and up, his eyes flickering between her hand and her face._

Emma repeats her invitation, wanting him to understand. To know...that _she_ understands. "Killian Jones, stop being stubborn," she whispers as teasingly as she can under the circumstances. If she says the wrong thing, it will drive him away from her. "I'm asking you...to stay. Don't go just yet. Please." The last word is so much more than a plea, though, and while she's not begging, she's doing more than mere _asking_.

He cocks his head at her, still unsure, but slowly, when she tentatively strokes her fingers over his skin, an answering smile makes its journey on his lips, and she could swear that she's never seen such a warmth emanate from his face before. Well, in the limited days and weeks that she's known him. His hand leaves the door immediately, and she's leading him by the arm to the badly cushioned armchair in the corner, requesting that he wait a minute so she can place a thick towel down before he sits. He complies, pretending to peer up at the ceiling while she senses his smolder from across the room.

Naturally, her clumsiness comes through to vex her, and as she walks to where he is, fluffy fabric in hand, the toe of her boot gets caught under the old rug serving as a carpet, and she only saves herself from falling flat by reaching for the nearest solid object. That happens to be a startled Killian, who takes the impact bravely but lands behind-first in the chair, and when she has settled her flailing arms well enough to plant both hands on opposite armrests, she realizes just why the man in front of her is appearing very uncomfortable. Or should she say, very _attentive_ to her every move.

Her body is, more or less, suspended over his, her forehead nearly brushing his as her new position affords her such scandalous proximity. But he is still waiting, and when his eyes draw attention to her mouth again, fear builds in her stomach, making her gasp. Of all that he can't want from her, he most certainly can't want _that_ from her. _Can't he?_, her conscience prompts back.

Trying to grin confidently, she presents him with the towel she promised. However, when he takes it, their fingers touch, and she's sure she can commiserate with those who were rumored to have died of internal combustion. His gaze softens, and it is then that she admits to herself how she wants to lean in the rest of the way, to not retract the longing that is flowing freely through her.

But, adhering to common sense and a fleeting image of Neal in her mind, she doesn't. Carefully drawing back, she breathes a sigh of relief when she finally makes it behind the thick changing screen, welcoming the seclusion and invisibility.

Why is it that he fills the emptiness so, that he leaves her tingling with hope and trust and all those emotions and wishes she locked in her past? Why is it that he seems to belong amid her living space, his presence strangely comforting and reassuring?

If she is not cautious, she will grow attached to him, because despite her misgivings, she likes how all this feels. She likes how he makes her house feel like a home ― a _real_ home. Smiling to herself, Emma shakes her head as she puzzles over her mixed feelings toward Killian, slipping off her damp blouse and petticoats until she is dressed only in her corset. The only conclusion she can draw is...that it's not so lonely anymore with him here.

* * *

Her musings are cut short when she tugs at the bow keeping the bindings together, horror running through her when she pulls and pulls to no avail. Damn it, the ties must have formed an impenetrable knot ― and how on earth is she going to undo it when she can't see it, let alone reach it?

Eventually, she succumbs to the only plausible solution. "Killian?"

"Aye?" comes his strong brogue.

"Could you, ahem, come here for a moment?" The answering silence makes her chuckle unhappily. "I...need your help." After audible rustling and some clatter, his footfalls echo and she begins to tremble, grabbing the robe that is lying on the top of the screen and quickly putting it on.

He clears his throat awkwardly. "How may I be of assistance, milady?"

She almost wants to laugh at his bashful politeness. Is he actually as much of a flirt as she ruled him to be, or is he only like that around _her_? Nevertheless, her sense of humor grows sombre, and she focuses on the task at hand. "My stays are knotted tight."

She hears him swallow hard. "And you wish for me to...take care of that hindrance, correct?"

Closing her eyes, she reluctantly emerges from behind her stiff curtain of protection, trying not to meet his questioning gaze. Turning around, she says softly, "I would greatly appreciate it."

When she slips off her robe minimally, he breathes in sharply, and they both are unable to move. Then she feels his fingertips graze her spine, and his thumbs stroke the skin there repeatedly as he tugs at the knot. Accidental or not, the gentle contact makes her heart beat all too fast meanwhile. As for Killian, he curses unintelligibly several times, but finally, he announces, "Done," and she's accordingly loosening the offensive garment she loathes to wear.

She realizes a second too late that the man is still standing behind her, watching.

"_Emma_," he groans when her robe slips to the floor along with the corset. Flushing deeply, she covers herself with her arms as best she can, grateful for the fact that it is her back facing him and not her front. She is now only in her shift and this is highly inappropriate and _God, why does she have to be so, so stupid_―

"I'm sorry," she whispers. "I ― I forgot. And it...that _thing_ was hurting me. I hate it."

His laugh sounds unmistakably forced, but he bends over and grabs her robe, elegantly draping it over her shoulders. His hand, warm and kind, stirs her inside, and holding on to her remaining courage with the will of a lion, she swivels, wanting to see him.

She's still not entirely covered ― not as proper ladies ought to be, with collars up to their neck and skirts down to their ankles ― but she doesn't care. All she can care about is that Killian Jones has this shy, embarrassed expression on his face that rapidly transforms into one of unadulterated hunger. It's familiar, this pure desire, his eyes following the contours of her limbs, analyzing her curves, studying her face. She can feel the heat he is exuding, just as she had on the beach, but this time, she is visibly showing her reaction. A thin piece of cotton cloth is the one item separating him from her naked form, and though she should feel more ashamed than before ― she should be mortified, actually ― she is mirroring the same desire, a fact which makes her blush deeply and sigh.

She could take comfort in him, his body, his sympathy. She could forget about propriety and _doing the right thing_ and being a lady. This night, she could be his. It would be so easy, so simple...to give in. The notion both thrills and terrifies her, for though she may have fallen in love once, she has never been with a man. A few kisses and touches here and there, but no further. It's not her, to want such physical closeness with anyone, to be enticed by any man in such a wanton manner.

But Killian is so handsome and willing, hovering over her and looking so concerned and full of yearning. Although he makes no advances, his lips are parted, and his head dips down, tilting ever so slightly. One kiss, and he could be hers tonight. For people as passionate as they, it wouldn't stop after one touch ― not when they are both hurting inwardly, needing the aches of the past to be soothed. Perhaps...perhaps they need each other...

Lust flees when she sees him shiver and recalls that he's still wet. Instantly, the tension between them is broken. "Oh," she says suddenly, wrapping her robe about her more securely and outstretching her hand to him, beckoning him to take her place. "You need to change."

He licks his lips slowly, his bright eyes not leaving hers. "Aye, I do," he murmurs, taking her hand in his and pressing a kiss on top of it, all while staring at her pointedly. It's like their first meeting all over again.

She can't help but grin. "Your _clothes,_" she corrects, her smile widening on seeing the extent of his misunderstanding.

He chuckles from realization. "Indeed," he replies, his brow furrowing for a moment. "I'd forgotten."

Stepping back, she turns around and strides toward her wardrobe, muttering to herself, "I'll go and...get you that blanket." Rummaging in her cupboards, she finds one for him and another for herself, placing his over the top of the changing screen.

On hearing noise indicating that he is undressing, she averts her sight from that direction and instead contemplates their near indiscretion, wondering if he will pursue it again or hold it against her later.

* * *

Emma peeks at him again and quickly looks away when he catches her glancing at him. The sight of Killian Jones wrapped from head to toe in her white cashmere blanket, one of the most precious objects she owns, is something she will not be forgetting anytime soon. His hair is tufted and most resembles a bird's nest at this point, but she can't help smiling at the childish way he is cuddling into the blanket, pressing his nose to it at times and inhaling deeply. When he meets her inquiring stare, he ducks his face farther into the fabric, looking straight ahead at the fire. Truth be told, his boyish behavior is adorable beyond words.

The simple clothes rack is currently stretching his trousers, his shirt, his belt, her dress, and her undergarments before the flaming heat. When she asked if he would be drying his long johns as well, he only gave her a very cocky smirk and didn't reply.

It's a safe guess that he is not wearing anything underneath her blanket, and the very image of that is making Emma flush. The circumstances and their consequences should be making her cry from shame, really, but Killian is being a gentleman, refraining from commentary on their attire's shared space, and in the light of their companionship, she doesn't want to ruin the quiet atmosphere they've built. They are sitting on the rug, backs set against the bottom of the crude settee, the fireplace right in front of them.

"It smells like honeysuckle."

She raises a brow, confused.

He clears his throat and explains, "The blanket ― it smells like that flower."

"Um..." How will she get around that story? "Yes...it's my favorite scent. What you're smelling is my perfume."

"A schoolteacher has perfume?" He grins lazily. "How unusual."

She rolls her eyes. "It was a gift ― from a friend."

"Ah." He shifts enough so that he is facing her. "A very rich friend, no doubt, to afford such a gift."

"Not exactly," she huffs, getting annoyed with his insinuations. "The lady who gave it to me...well, she was...very fond of me."

"Oh," he exclaims warily, acknowledging the pensive quality of her voice and therefore not carrying that discussion about the past anymore. Emma is relieved ― but it is short-lived, for he remarks on yet another subject best left alone.

"I see that you're wearing one of my pendants."

She peers down at it and makes an effort not to react the same towards its maker. How is she supposed to respond to his query, when she herself cannot grasp what possessed her to buy it? The lines of the swan are fluent and precise; the head itself has minute details and symmetry. The entire necklace, from the choice of beads and stones to the color of the wood used for the swan, is exquisite.

Wetting her lips, she opens her mouth to reply, but no words come out. How can she describe her feelings, when she is barely willing to let them show ― or let them exist?

"How fitting," he comments absently, "that you have chosen your namesake." His bare arm snakes out from between the edges of his covering and his fingers trace the contours of the figurine wistfully. Her collarbone is left untouched by his wanderings, however.

Instead of answering that, she speaks out what she shouldn't say, unable to retreat with her thoughts when he is so near beside her. "It's strange, being here like this with you." He stiffens, immobile, and she elaborates, "No ― I mean ― like _this_. You and me, here in this house. Alone. Our wet garments hanging side by side." She giggles, and it surprises her. She hasn't giggled since she was with Henry and Roland. "It's...odd circumstances, don't you agree?"

His grim frown becomes a hesitant smile, and his stern expression relaxes. "Aye...I did imagine us alone under other, more..._pleasurable_ circumstances. The clothes part...I don't mind so much." He crooks an eyebrow at her and that smile is now a wide smirk, but the comical way he reacts to his own statement makes her laugh, not brew angrily.

"Why did you really save me?" she asks suddenly, needing to know the truth. "I was so certain...that no one was around."

His hand meets her again, but he is gently rubbing an errant curl of hers between his fingertips, the gesture too innocent to be reprimanded. "Keeping an eye on me, darling?" Her pout curbs that train of suggestive thinking. "Well...to be frank, I was already on the beach before you arrived ― though I was farther along the shoreline, almost out of sight. I didn't see you at first. Then..." His thumb drifts to her cheek, stroking it. She finds she doesn't mind that at all. "Then, there you were, sailing among the waves, and when you started screaming like a bloody harpy, I knew I would just have to bloody jump in and save you." He finishes by withdrawing his hand from her and shrugging nonchalantly.

"I didn't scream like a harpy!" she cries indignantly. When she sees how he is biting his bottom lip to restrain his laughter, she exhales deeply. "I didn't...I don't know what you think of me, but I didn't intentionally mean to be reckless by doing that. It was an accident. I just wanted..." She looks at him pleadingly. "I wanted, for one moment, to feel free."

He gazes at her intently. "And I wanted for you not to be claimed by the sea, Swan. Why can't you believe," he breathed, "that I simply didn't want anything to happen to you?"

Attraction is fiery and piercing. Feeling, on the other hand, works slowly and mysteriously, a wave of calm or a wave of grief or a wave of caring that sweeps through and demonstrates how different the affected person has become because of it. Right now, Emma is floating on a wave of warmth that settles her entire being and reminds her of who she is, how far she has come. That nothing is wasted, no experience for naught.

Somehow, Killian Jones has single-handedly reached into her heart and encouraged it to keep beating.

Somehow, she has found one good reason for being here in Storybrooke.

* * *

The fire has died out during the night, though the cinders are still glowing. The room is covered in darkness, as sunlight doesn't reach the house until mid-morning, and there is condensed silence throughout.

Nevertheless, she feels contentedly warm and snug, her face buried in soft comfort, her nose tickled by a familiar sweet scent.

Wait.

Honeysuckle.

And..._rum_?

Her eyelids flutter until her eyes are fully open, and she gapes at what she sees. Killian's head is nestled in the crook of her neck, and their bodies are partly entwined as he cuddles with her, blanket still enfolded around him ― they must have fallen asleep and curled next to each other because of the cold. She is wrapped in his arms, and to be honest, it's _wonderful_.

Beautifully wonderful, because not even Neal gave her something as simple as an embrace when she needed it ― he wasn't really a "no strings attached" kind of man ― and Killian is unapproachable but clearly more compassionate than she bargained for.

His right wrist is exposed, and for the first time she sees a colorful tattoo there. The name "Milah" is scrawled there, and because a heart lies next to it, she can guess that that woman was a special part of his life. One of his secrets, perhaps ― like Neal is hers. Secret loves and secret wounds. She wonders what happened to Milah, because Killian is alone. Smiling wistfully at his antics, she gently disentangles from him and before she stands up, she plants a soft kiss on his cheek. She hears him sigh in reply, still dreaming. Well, she won't wake him.

Their garments are very stiff and unpleasant feeling, but dry nonetheless. She presses and folds Killian's articles of clothing, places them in an organized stack, and sets them on a chair by the door. Pulling a simple sundress from her wardrobe, she washes her face and hands, uninterested in her reflection, and then fixes her hair and remaining clothes. Stoking the fire, she brings heat and light again to the room. She hums as she dances across the floor, tidying up her house.

Then when she's finished and after another glance at a sleeping Killian, she goes to prepare breakfast, for once anticipating the dawn.

* * *

**A/N: Review?**


	5. No Ever Afters

**Thank you for all the follows, favorites, and reviews ― it means the world to me that you're reading this story. **

**Remember...really slow-burning Captain Swan here. And I'm thinking about 30 to 40 chapters for the whole fic.**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing except the plot of this fic.**

CHAPTER V – NO EVER AFTERS

* * *

"Mmm...you make a fine breakfast, milady." Killian is chewing every bite thoroughly, looking extremely pleased after each swallow. Behind her back, he had woken up silently, dressed quickly, and readily sat down at her two-place table. In retribution, Emma's mind is wondering how he is not a mirage and is still here. _Everyone leaves eventually. No one stays. _

She shrugs meekly in response to his praise. "It's only fried eggs and bread and butter―"

"All of which create a feast fit for a king," he counters, raising an eyebrow defiantly when she opens her mouth to contradict him. The gesture renders her silent and she closes her mouth after a moment of reflection.

"I'm not...much of a cook," she finally says, looking down at her lap. Her own morning meal lies untouched on the table, the plate and fork and napkin arranged in perfect symmetry. But nothing looks appetizing.

When Killian folds his napkin beside his own plate, placing his soiled cutlery on top, she smiles weakly and moves to take it ― and her own failed sustenance ― to the iron sink on the far-side wall. His hand reaches out to stop her.

"You're not eating?" he inquires softly, looking as concerned as he did when she almost drowned. Blushing, she shakes her head.

"I don't feel hungry."

He bows his head, and Emma worries that she's embarrassed him. To escape what could be coming, what might be coming, she makes a choice and takes a leap of faith: she places her hand over his. The action clearly startles him, because he is staring at their nearly conjoined hands as if they are unknown objects that have suddenly appeared.

"It's a memory," she explains softly, touching his skin a second time before withdrawing and completing the task she started. The swish of draining water and quiet gurgle of it reaching the pipe that leads it home outside masks his footsteps, for one moment she is alone and then he is right behind her, removing her hand from clutching the edge of the sink and returning it to his hold.

"You seem to have many painful memories, I think," he murmurs. The gentle tone of his voice, the way he caresses her fingers with his, makes her turn towards him. He makes her look at him, even though he is not doing anything. He is naturally persuasive ― or perhaps she has been seeking a kindred soul all this time and she still hasn't learned her lesson...that friendship doesn't really exist...

"But then..." He smiles sadly. "So do I."

She marvels that he doesn't just _assume_ their kinship, that he's letting her set the terms of their relationship ― whatever that might be. Because these feelings he stirs in her...so profound, so mysterious...they refuse to be disregarded and demand to be defined. They remind her of what she once dreamed of, a time that appears to be so distant and unreachable now.

"Thank you for your hospitality, Miss Swan," he recites, but there is sincerity in his words in lieu of cold formality. He adds an instant later, "This is the first time in a long time that I've been ― and _stayed_ ― in a place where I haven't been judged. Or..." He looks down. "Or laughed at."

She tries to smile. "And who says I haven't judged you?"

"I have my ways," he chuckles drily. Then his expression is increasingly sombre. "But, if you truly had, you wouldn't be asking me that question right now. I speak from experience." His gaze softens and strengthens all at once. "You _are_ afraid to trust me, to reveal yourself...but how can I expect more, when I feel the same as you do?"

Earnest, kind, questioning, anguished... Killian Jones is no ordinary man. He has been forced to wear the coat of a scapegoat, taking the scorn of Storybrooke in stride with his own pain. "But I thought I irritated you," she replies to a passing thought, unable to form an answer equivalent to his previous query.

He only grins and follows the mutual memory as well, remarking, "You were at the right place at the wrong time. I was in a particularly foul mood that afternoon, and even the smallest amount of patience was lacking." He moves closer, daring to lower his face so that their noses are almost touching. "If you believe that I don't like you, you are quite incorrect, darling. Oh no... When I see you," he whispers breathlessly, "I see hope. There's a beacon of light in this town again, and I'm helpless to stay away from it."

She searches his eyes, suddenly desperate for reassurance but not sure what to say. His fixed stare is quite as scrutinizing as hers, and again, she feels this lengthening connection, like a taut line of rope anchoring her to her course, extend out from him to her. "Maybe the reason why...is because we understand each other," she offers with a timid smile.

"Aye...you and I..." He brushes his lips against her forehead, and the soft kiss he leaves there makes Emma gasp quietly and a jolt of dread sweeps through her. "To have someone who knows precisely what you have gone through...it's a powerful antidote."

"Antidote? To what?"

"We've both been left alone."

She can smell his earthy scent, as if he carries the fragrant spices of the world with him wherever he goes. He has heaven's gaze, and though he is no Hercules from the Greek myths she read as a young adult, he has the looks of a demi-god, beauty and strength and fire melded together so that the closest reminder of a celestial angel remains. And he is fallible, which makes him human and within her touch, her reach. Despite her efforts to deny it, her body is relentlessly attracted to his, and she can't stop it.

But as for what he thinks of her...

"Emma Swan, you are more of a rare bird than you believe," he reveals, his hand stroking her cheek. She is now convinced that he can read her mind, but not like a street magician selling card tricks. Similarity is a double-edged sword, for you can see through another by recognizing yourself in them. "And to set the record straight, to put any doubts to rest, let me be perfectly clear and open. I like you. And I'd like to experience the pleasure of your company more often in the coming days. Will you do me this honor, that I will continue to see you and talk to you once I take my leave today and walk out of this door?"

She lets her growing smile take over her lips, lets the flutter of happiness building inside shine through. "But what are your true intentions?" she challenges one last time, not wanting to tease him ― however, she does need to know his ulterior motives, if he has any. Clues would be helpful...

He smirks all too charmingly. "Why, I intend to be your _friend_. I would never presume more ― unless you wished it." Bending down, he kisses her hands and clasps them in his single one, as if she is a lady and he is a lord. Utter honesty in every gesture, every word, every glance. Who is this man, really? He has the airs of a gentleman ― but then, a true gentleman is one at heart and not at appearance. And Killian Jones seems to be the former, not the latter.

She realizes she's been holding her breath, speechless, when Killian clears his throat expectantly, awaiting her reply. He is anxious, and there's a visible sign of worry that she'll reject him, that he could never be anything to her. "Ahem...I'd...I'd like that. Very, very much." She would enjoy spending more moments like this with him, but from the way the sun is shining on her windows, it's time to go to the schoolhouse. "And now...we must say good-bye." The look of heartbreak on his face makes her shiver, and she hastens to rectify it. "I'm due for work, Killian," she adds with a gentle laugh.

The sound of his name uttered by her voice mollifies his expression like the magic dust of dreams does in fairy tales. His smile is the proof. "Oh. Well, in that case..." He helps her don her coat and shawl, quite adept and agile as he springs toward the door, eager and pleased as can be. "Allow me to escort you to the school, my Swan?"

She chuckles and rolls her eyes. "And how am I _your_ Swan, may I ask?"

"Simple ― I saw you first. There are only two swans in this town: one resides in the night sky, and the other...she's found a permanent place in my dreams, my thoughts, and my life." The intensity with which he says this, his gaze searing and piercing, causes a blush to dance upon her cheeks, and she can feel the atmosphere in the room grow hotter and hotter, like he has become a singular burning star because of his fine speech.

"Killian Jones, you certainly know the power of flattery." Pretending to be chagrined, she tsks at him. After locking the door behind them, she leads him down the small trail down to the main path. Vague fog has settled around the houses and dots the landscape like runaway clouds from the sky gone rampant.

"It's not flattery when it's the truth, love. But no worries ― I've always been told I'm quite good in rhetoric." This earns more of her laughter ― and his answering smile ― once again. Their breaths are puffs of white smoke in the chilly air, and though it's sunny and bright, the world looks like a land of mist. She holds on to his right arm, her steps are perfectly in time with his...and though he is peering at street corners and windows, the look of exile and condemnation entering his eyes, she keeps her head up high and tells herself that she cares less what the villagers will think of the schoolteacher parading around with the lighthouse keeper.

Out of all her new acquaintances here, this is one she's willing to take a chance on for more.

* * *

_Robin Locksley's mansion is more grand and awe-inspiring than she could ever possible imagine. However, in some ways, it feels cold and empty, as the master of the house is usually not in, leaving her frequently alone with two children and a kitchen full of servants._

_Roland is five years old and always tags along with his toy bear, while precocious Henry ― his soon-to-be stepbrother ― still believes in magic at the tender age of nine. Together, they create a lot of mischief, their love for stories causing chaos for the entire household when they're on the search for adventure. They giggle and scream, run and hide about the garden, chase each other across rooms and corridors, ask hundreds of questions during lessons. They are bursts of energy and enthusiasm._

_Being their governess is no easy task, but at the end of the day, it feels rather rewarding nonetheless. She is teaching them mathematics, but childhood logic intervenes more often than not, and she finds herself talking off-topic about navigating the world with only a compass, or building a treehouse on a deserted island with barely any tools. They are supposed to be practicing their writing, but she ends up telling them stories about faraway lands and heroes and villains, about good and evil and how love is more powerful than anything else. And during Latin translations, they beg her to narrate tales from _Plutarch's Lives_ or any myths she's willing to share._

_Little by little, she learns that she enjoys this opportunity that she's been given, and that maybe Mother Superior was right._

_She likes taking care of her students, even if she wishes with all her might that someone would choose to take care of her._

_Walking briskly toward the servants' quarters in search of the housekeeper, Miss Adelaide, she runs into another figure exiting that very place quicker than she's entering it._

_He apologizes profusely, then his eyes meet hers. It's like a match has been lit and it's being held close to her skin, the way her face flushes and she can't speak. But he overlooks her embarrassment and shyness, calmly introducing himself as Neal, that he works in the stables, and that he was just badgering the cook for his promised lunch. He smiles after she does, he mentions her new position in the Locksley household, and welcomes her to Sherwood Manor. He's handsome, well-voiced, and..._

_And she still remembers how he turned his head at the corner, giving her another ogling look and winsome grin before heading out of her sight._

_Over the next few hours, the stables become a priority to visit, because she is sure of one thing: she would really like to see this Neal again._

* * *

Mary Margaret waves to her from across the lane, and Emma gladly reciprocates, wanting to talk to her and David again.

"Hello...I haven't seen you for a long while," she begins awkwardly when she's standing beside Mary. The young woman at her right just gives her a warm smile and gently squeezes her hand.

"David and I ― we've missed you, Emma. Truly." She continues before Emma get in a word. "He told me about that night you couldn't come, and I felt so bad about that whole misunderstanding that I told him we needed to give you some space and let you be, if you wanted some time to be alone. But..." She finally inhales, her cheeks pink. "If you're up for it, we would greatly enjoy having you over for dinner again sometime."

The kindly, happily spoken invitation encourages Emma to accept. "I'd love to."

"Wonderful! Oh, and I hope you don't mind company ― David wants Killian to come over ― you remember him, right? ― and he's practically pulling an arm and a leg to persuade him to agree. But maybe he'll be more agreeable when he hears _you'll_ be there..."

_As candid a matchmaker as ever. _ Apparently, no one knows about the incident with the boat, about Killian furtively staying the night in her abode. For if the town did know about it, Mary Margaret would surely know about it as well. She is considered Storybrooke's resident princess, in many regards, but she never acts like it. She has the most congenial disposition in the world, and David is a very fortunate man.

"No, I don't mind. I don't mind at all." Emma hefts her heavy canvas bag up on her shoulder, trying to soothe her aching back and shoulder. "I was meaning to ask, by the way, if you know of anywhere I could find more sheet music paper?"

Mary Margaret strides in time with her as they follow the winding paths, some of the town out of view as they near the girl's house. "I do ― Marco's carpentry shop sells some paper on the side. But what do you need it for?"

She groans when the strap of the bag digs into a particularly sore muscle. "Oh, me being an idiot as usual." She sighs when Mary Margaret gapes at her, both brows furrowed. "I want to teach the children about music. I was thinking...about forming a school choir, just for them, so they can do something together as a class."

"That's...that's a splendid idea!" She beams at her.

Emma shakes her head tiredly. "More of a recipe for disaster than anything else ― some of the older boys are tone-deaf, and getting them to get into group formation is like taming a pack of wild dogs." She rubs at her eyes, pulling her shawl tighter about her shoulders. "But I'm not going to give up so easily. I'll start by teaching them how to read music, music history, music theory... Dear Lord, this is going to be so difficult..."

She realizes a moment too late that she's taken the Lord's name in vain and probably shocked the very demure Mary Margaret, but to Emma's surprise, David's fiancé is barely holding back her laughter.

"What's so funny?"

"You," she giggles. "You're...Emma, no matter what you say or how you grumble, you're the most dedicated teacher I've ever met."

She scoffs. "The _only_ teacher you've ever met."

"True," Mary Margaret admits, "but you fit my vision of what a teacher _should_ be like perfectly."

Throughout her life so far, many people have bestowed compliments and derision upon her. The latter came easily, while the former was occasional, and when it did come, it was usually offered in expectation of something to be given in return.

_Nothing is for free_, says the age-old adage, and Emma learned this one pretty early in life. But the genuine admiration in her friend's eyes speaks to the contrary.

* * *

For several days, there's no sign of the elusive Killian. Not that she's counting the days. It's obvious that he's occupied with his own work, and that maintaining the lighthouse requires constant vigilance. However, Emma secretly hopes that he would try to find a moment to visit her in the midst of his daily duties. She knows it's a selfish hope, when if she truly wanted to see him, she could go visit him herself.

Oh, the horror of old women's gossip and the town's disrepute if she were to do such a thing.

Luckily, David catches her on her journey back to her cottage after the class has been dismissed for the day. After sharing greetings and relative small talk, he offhandedly comments about helping Killian fix the faulty lighthouse lamps and a breakage near the main lamp. She quietly suggests her help. Without a second thought, he answers with a big grin and hearty whistling as they tread upward, wandering farther and farther from the heart of Storybrooke on their way to the mysterious outcast's home.

Well, she wanted adventure, a break from this tranquil life and its predictability ― but daring venture or not, this expedition will certainly change much. That she believes more than anything as she hikes up her skirt to her calves and trudges alongside a panting David.

As David predicted, the lighthouse and its adjoining quarters are nestled in the heart of a high foothill, almost hanging on a nearby promontory. Thick forest surrenders to sparse outlying trees, and they in their turn yield to an abundance of high, green grass. It is extremely windy when they arrive at their destination, but it is a blessing in disguise. The strong breeze pushes Emma closer and closer to a jutting cliff, but she ignores the possibility of danger and instead focuses on what's below and ahead.

The awaiting view takes her breath away and stuns her.

When the sunlight catches the ocean waves and tosses its reflection back and forth upon them, the sea indifferent to all elements except its own, she knows _that_ is freedom. The open horizon, tomorrows not fixed in a particular place and time, the promise of endless drifting...

Yes, that is a true escape, a passage to another life.

Her skirt is billowing about her like a mad, fluttering sheet. Her bonnet has been blown into inactivity, thin strings keeping it hanging behind her head until she can use it again. Her hair has been stolen by air itself, toying with each strand individually and together. Her eyes are watering, but they're adjusting the new sensations and growing bolder.

She loves this. Absolutely _loves_ it. No fences, no gates, no walls, no chains. No heartbreak ― not up here. Fear of exposure has fled.

Spreading her arms, she pretends she's riding the winds of time, and she lets her eyelids close, reveling in how weightless and transparent she feels. Tilting her head back, she inhales deeply as her cheeks are caressed by fingertips that are not of skin and bone.

At night, the endless stars ground you, remind you that you are so small in space that is so vast and beyond your comprehension. But it is the ocean that encourages you to stake your claim on the earth by actually being with all of it, not just one little piece.

Finally, she smiles as the wind dies and she comes back down from the skies. No wonder Killian hides up here rather than coming to Storybrooke. In all his solitude and loneliness, he has one thing that she does not: the splendor of nature and its calling to the most intrinsic part of every living creature.

"Emma?" David calls out, waving her over. _God, he is so much like Mary Margaret that there's not separating one from the other_, she muses, biting back a laugh as she runs her fingers through her curls and tries to comb through her now messy, entangled hair.

Enough of her daydreams and fantasies.

It's time to go see Killian Jones.

* * *

**A/N: Sorry this one's rather short ― the next chapter will be longer. Big CS scenes are planned.**

**Until next time, and please review!**


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